It was a busy morning for Bruce Standing. Yet three times he found the time ... rather he made it ... to go out to the "hospital" to stand over old Thor and speak softly to him. Thor lay upon a white-enamelled bed; his bed was softened for him by many downy pillows; at the bedside sat Charley Peters, his face as grave, his eye as watchful, as could have been had it been Timber-Wolf himself who lay there. And when Standing came in Thor heard his step and tried to move; tried to lift his poor battered head. But at the master's low voice, "Down, Thor! Down, sir ... good old dog!" Thor lay back and his tired sigh was like the sigh of a man. Standing's big hand rested gently upon the old fellow ... then Standing went out, walking softly and Thor lay still a very long while, waiting for him to come again....
Al Blake left within fifteen minutes of his arrival, a little army of armed men at his back. With him, on the fastest horse in Standing's stables, rode a man whose sole responsibility was to race back with word of conditions. Fully Standing counted on hearing that already at least two claims had been staked. But he was not ready to see Lynette again so soon; he was not ready yet to see Babe Deveril. Never for a single instant since seeing that bit of paper hung to a tree with a girl's mockery upon it, had he doubted that this girl, whom he had thought that he loved, had cast in with the Baby Devil, the two racing side by side to steal Mexicali Joe's gold. He had said to Al Blake:
"Put them off ... but don't hurt either of them. Leave them to me."
Attorney Ben Brewster, a man much shaken, arrived in record time. He could scarcely speak a word until Graham poured out for him a generous glass of whiskey. Then he glared at Standing as though he would highly enjoy killing him.
"You've got a fee to pay this trip," he groaned, "that will make you sit up and stretch your eyes! Good God, man...."
"Give him another drink, Graham," said Standing. "He's a lawyer and there's no danger of such getting drunk!... Curse your fees, Brewster. What do I care so you make an iron-clad job of it."
"And the job?"
Graham saw that he had a cigar.
"Something crooked!" muttered Brewster. "I'll bet a hat!"